


Three Words or Less

by CousinCecily



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anything you write on your skin shows up on your soulmate, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Meetings, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Talkative Jaskier | Dandelion, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28440639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinCecily/pseuds/CousinCecily
Summary: Geralt has lived sixty-three years on the Path. He has slain countless monsters, bedded beautiful sorceresses, seen kingdoms rise and fall across the Continent. And he has never heard of a witcher with a soul bond.As he stares at his arm in shock, he watches as another flower, nearly identical to the one he saw last month, is traced into his skin.“Fuck.”***An AU where anything you write on your skin shows up on your soulmate.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 76
Kudos: 735
Collections: Geraskier Holiday Exchange 2020





	Three Words or Less

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KARIN848](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KARIN848/gifts).



> This is a gift for [KARIN848](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KARIN848) for the Geraskier Holiday Exchange! I had SUCH a good time writing this, thank you for giving me an excuse to try soulmate AU. I hope you love it ❤️
> 
> A big thank you to [DrowningByDegrees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees) for betaing and cheerleading.

The first time Geralt notices a smudge of ink on his finger, he dismisses it. The inkwell in his pack must have leaked, or it’s stray monster ichor, or something else. Even though it’s been days since he’s been on any hunts, or even in that particular saddlebag. Whatever the case, he ignores it.

***

The second time he sees a mark, he’s in a tavern after a long hunt, well into his third mug of ale. It was a shit hunt, and even spiking this tankard with witcher-strength White Gull isn’t erasing the mutilated bodies from his mind. The innkeeper keeps shooting him glares, and Geralt’s wondering if he shouldn’t just take Roach and leave instead of going up to the cramped and drafty room upstairs. 

As he tosses back the last dregs of his ale, he sees it out of the corner of his eye. On his left arm, just peeking out from underneath the sleeve, is something that could be the tiny outline of a flower. It’s simple, almost childlike, ink already smearing along the edge. 

Geralt barely refrains from choking, and he stands so quickly his vision swims. He’s too deep in his cups for this. Gritting his teeth, he tugs his sleeve down, steadfastly writing it off as the hallucinogenic properties of White Gull. When he stomps up to his room and face-plants on the bed, he tells himself he doesn’t remove his shirt because he’s tired. Wants to get an early start tomorrow. He almost believes it.

***

The third time, Geralt’s in the bath, washing drowner blood off his arms when he sees it — messy curved script that asks, 

**Hello, is there anyone out there?**

Breath freezes in Geralt’s chest as he drops the bar of soap. 

The mark wasn’t there before he left for the hunt. His skin was clear when he was putting his armor on. There was no opportunity for anyone to have written anything on him in the time since he left the inn and returned from the hunt. And he hasn’t seen any mages in weeks.

Somewhat frantically, he fishes the soap out of the water to scrub at his skin. The mark doesn’t fade. The ink isn’t on _his_ skin.

Geralt has lived sixty-three years on the Path. He has slain countless monsters, bedded beautiful sorceresses, seen kingdoms rise and fall across the Continent. And he has never heard of a witcher with a soul bond. 

As he stares at his arm in shock, he watches as another flower, nearly identical to the one he saw last month, is traced into his skin.

“Fuck.”

***

The exact science of soul bonds, as scholars and mages have studied over the ages, is still unclear. The known factor is this: humans with a soul bond, around the age of seventeen, develop the ability to write on their skin using regular ink, and identical markings will appear on their soulmate. Those marks only last until the original bearer washes them off, and there is no way of knowing if you have a soulmate until you find the evidence on your skin. 

While soul bonds are relatively common among humans, one has never been observed on a witcher. Not to Geralt’s knowledge. This is so unprecedented Geralt is at a loss for what to do. One thing he knows for sure: he is _never_ writing anything in reply.

***

Geralt takes to wearing gloves. He never rolls up his sleeves, hardly takes off his shirt at all. Baths are a quick experience, with Geralt hardly looking at himself as he scrubs himself down. He rarely records anything in his travel journal, and anything he does write he does so with extreme caution, treating the ink with the same care as the deadliest of poisons. It’s fine. He’s getting used to it.

Still, he can’t help but catch glimpses of text and the same scribbled flower. 

***

Geralt is traveling down a dirt path, walking beside Roach to give her a bit of a break. It’s summertime in Velen, and the fields are dotted with flowers. He’s passing a large patch of dandelions when without warning, a small smile crosses his face. 

Abruptly, he stops, and it’s like someone’s poured ice water in his veins. The flower drawing is one of the most common things he catches on his arm, and one of the few things he knows about his— he can’t even think the word. 

He doesn’t know much about them, but they’ve kept writing. There’s been a few greetings, here and there, from what little he’s seen. If they’ve given their name, Geralt’s missed it. The only thing he really has to go off of is the flower. He looks out at the field of flowers again, trying to calm the tide of emotion in his chest.

Roach, uncaring of his inner turmoil, impatiently butts her head against his chest. Geralt looks at her and huffs out a laugh, patting her neck. “Alright Roach,” he murmurs, letting go of her reins so she can meander over to the flowers to munch on a few. Geralt bends down to pick one, twirling it between his fingers. It’s yellow and bright. A weed. Tenacious. A dandelion. 

Roach snatches the flower from Geralt’s hands and he chuckles. Shaking himself, he carefully empties his mind. He doesn’t look at his arms.

***

For all that Geralt isn’t thinking about it, he is. All of the time. 

He isn’t avoiding the issue. He’s _not_. This is just… easier. Dandelion — and for all that he hates himself for giving them a name, he can’t seem to stop using it — is young, they can’t be more than seventeen. Practically a child. They’re much too young to deal with the knowledge that Destiny has saddled them with a _witcher_ , and the Butcher of Blaviken, no less. 

He already knows how that conversation would go. It’s fine. He hates the idea of being tied to anyone, anyway. He’ll deal with this if and only if he needs to. It would be better not to have to, that’s all.

But perhaps he’ll stop covering his arms quite so often. At least when he’s alone.

***

Now that he’s no longer avoiding the sight of his own skin, Geralt’s inadvertently learned more and more about Dandelion. He’s the son of a noble, for one. He’s also musically inclined, and currently studying at university. But the one thing he’s learned above all else is that he’s _talkative._

Geralt wasn’t aware one could hold an entire conversation one-sided on an arm, but Dandelion seems determined to prove him wrong.

The writing on his skin has moved on from greetings, and now consists largely of random musings. Whatever happens to pop into Dandelion’s mind, it seems. Geralt’s seen observations on the color of the sky or the particular shape of a cloud. Opinions on strawberry pastries versus raspberry. Wondering why birds have such beady little eyes, or if it’s possible to write a dirge to the slow nasal droning of Professor Brackwood. There’s even the occasional fragment of poetry. 

To his dismay, he often finds himself wondering what nonsense Dandelion will write _next_.

***

Geralt is minding his own business, having some watery stew at a tavern, when Dandelion asks him about monsters. 

Well, not _him_ specifically. Dandelion doesn’t know he exists, after all. He’s just asking the world at large, Geralt supposes.

Apparently, the students have been warned not to go out after dark, as there’s a fleder loose in the city. Dandelion knows some friends going out anyway, and he’s asked his arm whether or not he should brave the fucking _fleder_ to go to a party.

It’s reckless, and stupid, and exactly the sort of behavior that will get Dandelion killed. Fleders may be lesser vampires but that doesn’t make them any less deadly.

Geralt takes a long drink of ale. He shouldn’t care. He doesn’t care. 

He never asked for this anyway.

Unbidden, he remembers the words that greeted him as he broke down camp this morning. It wasn’t anything particularly interesting or funny, just a quick scrawl complaining about early lectures. It was nothing.

_But what if_ , Geralt’s traitorous heart asks, _after tonight, there really is nothing?_ He’d still be alone. That wouldn’t change. But the alone would be just a little bit lonelier. 

Fuck.

The only tavern that would serve him is across town from the inn, and he’s therefore nowhere near his quill and ink. But the longer he lets this go, the more likely Dandelion will go out into the night and possibly die and gods damn it all Geralt is not going to let that happen. “Fuck,” he says aloud for good measure. 

He drains the rest of his ale. The barkeep and the few patrons he speaks to either ignore his request for quill and ink, or they refuse outright.

Cursing, he goes next door and bangs on the alderman’s house. Geralt’s taken care of their monster already, so his late night wake up isn’t likely to garner a warm welcome. 

Groggy with sleep and growing consternation, the alderman opens the door and Geralt shoves past him. Taking quick stock of his office, Geralt takes a quill and inkpot, then grumbles something about it being related to the hunt, needed now, witcher business.

The alderman has barely finished sputtering before Geralt is out the door and into the night. He checks his arm, already assessing the best alley to tuck away in to write a message to his _blasted_ soulmate, when he stops short. Dandelion has replied — he isn’t going out after all. 

The tension in Geralt collapses. This is… this was… he needs another drink. Pocketing the quill and ink, he stalks back to the tavern.

One thing he knows: he is never letting this _idiot_ of a soulmate run his life like this. 

And if Geralt takes to carrying a quill and ink on his person, well, that’s no one’s business but his own.

***

The messages he finds aren’t always so carefree.

Some nights he sees things like, “Why won’t father ever look at me when I’m in the room?” or “Sometimes I wonder if you’re the only person who will truly listen to me, if you even exist at all,” or “Do you think my soulmate will love me for who I am, or for the person they want me to be?” For all their weight, they never last long — they’re washed away too quickly. They’re like secrets whispered into his skin.

Geralt won’t admit it, but when he finds messages like these, he strokes the text on his arm and wonders. What would it be like if he replied?

But he won’t.

He’s a witcher, he reminds himself. He wasn’t designed to provide comfort. He wouldn’t even know how.

Nights of holding Eskel after the Trials flash through his mind. His hands twitch.

He brushes down Roach instead.

***

There is a day, not unlike any other, when Geralt is fighting a monster. And he makes a stupid fucking mistake.

It’s a selkiemore, which he hates fighting. He’s knee deep in marsh water, ducking under and hacking at a flail of spiked tentacles, all surrounding the horrible gaping maw currently trying to devour him. Selkimores are rare, and hard to fight, and he’s _really_ not getting paid enough for this. At least their monster parts are worth a good bit of money. 

He’s already accumulated a few injuries and lost a bracer, but he keeps fighting, edging closer. Seeing his opening, he darts in to deliver the killing blow. The creature twists at the last moment, and instead he hits it in the lower neck, covering his left side in a stinging spray of purple. But he’s done it, the beast gives a wet guttural cry before falling dead at his feet.

Chest heaving, he stumbles to a bit of dry land to assess his injuries before he scavenges the corpse. He’s definitely got a few broken ribs, if the pain in his chest is anything to go by. There’s also a significant gash on his leg.

Well, he shouldn’t die, but it still hurts like a bitch. 

The toxins from the potions he took earlier, combined with the blood loss, leave him a little dazed. But his blood toxicity should be low enough for a Swallow to accelerate his healing. As he reaches for the vial and takes a swig, he takes another look at the violently purple ichor streaked across his exposed left arm. Geralt sighs. This is why he only wears black. Weird shit like this. 

As he’s looking, a slowly dawning horror creeps up his spine. Selkiemore ichor. One of the most rare and valuable monster parts. Coveted for its properties in making a particularly vibrant purple ink. 

Oh _fuck_.

With a sudden and horrifying clarity, Geralt plunges his arm into the brackish marsh water to scrub off the ink, but it’s already seeped into his skin. As he watches, writing, more messy and frantic than he’s ever seen it, starts to appear below the large purple stain.

**My Gods. You’re real. I have a soulmate. This can’t be anything else. I know for a _fact_ I did not spill what is literally the most expensive ink on the continent in such an extraordinary quantity on my arm. Does this mean you’re rich? Or royalty? And excessively careless with your belongings? Seriously, _who_ spills this amount of selkiemore ink? Who even _has_ this amount of selkiemore ink? It’s extremely rare, it only comes from—oh gods. Either you are very rich and very clumsy or you are near an actual selkiemore and having a very bad day oh _gods_ are you alright? Are you alive?? Did I just find and lose my soulmate all at once? This is the best and worst day of my life. It would make for a fantastic song but one I’d rather not live out. So please don’t be dead. I’ve only just learned about you. I need you to be alright.**

The words keep scribbling on, the text small and slowly filling his arm. He doesn’t… he doesn’t know what this feeling is. Underneath the panic of being discovered, there’s a strange tightness in his chest. No one’s ever— Of course people have _worried_ about Geralt but never like this. He’s never had someone so… close. He hunts alone. Bleeds alone. Geralt feels his vision blurring. He hurries to bandage his leg.

His arm has even more text on it now. Pleas for Geralt to still be alive. To not leave him like this. To not be dead. 

The backs of Geralt’s eyes tingle. He’s going to lose consciousness soon. He’s taken enough Swallow and bandaged the wounds enough that he should heal while he’s unconscious. He should be alright. 

Geralt clenches his teeth. Dandelion. He can’t leave him like this. He’s clearly panicking. Feeling like he is possibly making the biggest mistake of his life, Geralt carefully drags a fingertip through the ichor and writes over Dandelion’s words.

**Not dead.**

He doesn’t have time to look for a reply before he loses consciousness.

***

Geralt wakes with a groan. He feels like death warmed over. Aching all over his body, he assesses his injuries without opening his eyes. It’s easier to breathe than before, though he still feels stiff. It takes him a moment before he remembers the final moments of the fight. The frantic text appearing on his arm. The two words he wrote in blood and ink. 

He hopes briefly that it might have been a fever dream, but he knows in his heart it wasn’t. He sits up slowly, wincing and looking around. The selkimore carcass is still beside him, half out of the bog. It’s nearly sunrise. He must’ve been injured worse than he thought. 

For all that he wants to ignore it, he finally looks down at his arm to see the dried purple ichor, his own words, and nothing more. The frantic flowing script across his arm has vanished. Dandelion must’ve washed it off already. 

Geralt won’t get to see what Dandelion said in reply. He tells himself he’s not disappointed, but as he rolls to his feet, he catches another hint of ink beneath the purple swath. The text is small, but neat.

**I’m glad you’re alive.**

And in even smaller text below that,

**Please stay that way.**

Geralt’s heart clenches. There’s no way Dandelion is awake this early. Part of him hates that he knows that about him. How has he gotten to know someone through only their nonsensical musings? It makes no sense.

Before he thinks too long about how panicked Dandelion sounded, and how he probably fell asleep worrying about him, and the myriad of tasks from harvesting parts from this monster carcass to bringing evidence to the alderman to finally washing his arm, he whistles for Roach and pulls a quill from of one of his armor pouches. 

**I’ll try _._**

It feels like a confession. 

***

After that, surprisingly little changes. Once Dandelion is reassured of Geralt’s continuing existence, he returns to writing all his thoughts on his arm. It’s like he has no filter, words just _pour_ out of him. Geralt wants to be more annoyed by that than he is. 

Still, he rarely replies. Dandelion seems to pick up on Geralt’s taciturn nature and doesn’t call him out on it. If anything, he seems happy enough knowing someone is listening. 

***

Once, Dandelion asks for his name. Geralt… doesn’t react well. His refusal is so quick and so sharp that Dandelion doesn’t ask again. 

***

They develop their own way of communicating. Dandelion talks and talks and says very little of consequence, and Geralt replies on occasion. Whenever Dandelion really wants a reply or an opinion, he’ll ask Geralt to give him three words or less.

Annoyingly, it always seems to work.

***

Dandelion’s building up to something. 

He’s never danced around a topic like this, always preferring to jump in instead. The subterfuge sets Geralt’s teeth on edge.

After the fourth or fifth fake-casual mention of the cities of the continent, Geralt’s had enough.

**Whatever you’re trying to say, spit it out.**

A long moment passes.

**I want to see the world.**

Geralt rolls his eyes. All this struggle for _that_? But Dandelion continues, and it’s like his handwriting has grown teeth.

**I can’t stay in one place forever. I refuse. I want to travel the continent. I want to perform in rowdy taverns and elegant palaces and everywhere in between. I want to be a traveling bard. No, I _will_ be a traveling bard. Soulmate or not, I won’t let anyone tie me down.**

Geralt stares at his arm in shock. He’s spent so long in his own feelings about Destiny and being tied down that he never stopped to consider that Dandelion might feel the same.

The campfire crackles, and a log collapses in a spray of sparks. He writes,

**I would never stop you from doing what you love.**

Geralt swallows, gathering his thoughts, and continues.

**Destiny may have stolen your choice in tying you to me, but I will not. Whatever you do with your life, I will honor. Even if someday you choose to never speak to me again. Your life is your own.**

Though the thought of losing Dandelion’s running commentary hurts more than he’d care to admit, he knows with a sudden fierceness the truth of his words.

Dandelion’s response, wobblier than the ones before, comes into focus.

**Thank you.**

Geralt breathes deep.

**You have my blessing, bard.**

He stares at the stars a long time after that.

***

**Midsummer.**

Geralt sighs. The pause has gone on long enough that Dandelion is clearly waiting for a response.

**What about it?**

Geralt knows Dandelion graduates this year. He’s certainly heard enough about Dandelion’s prep for their final performances, the school competition, and Valdo Marx. 

Dandelion’s response comes quickly. He was definitely waiting.

**I hear the edge of the world is lovely that time of year.**

**Your first destination after bardic school is _Posada?_**

Geralt knows what Dandelion’s asking. What he doesn’t know is what he’s going to do about it. 

Dandelion doesn’t push, however. He always seems to know when to hold back. 

_You are soulmates, after all_ , his brain reminds him. Geralt reminds his brain to fuck off.

***

Time crawls, and summer blooms.

As the days grow longer, he finds himself near Posada. He’s not _going_ , of course. He’s just following the contracts and they’ve happened to lead him here, is all. 

The next day, as he stables Roach at the inn and secures a spot in the most secluded corner of the tavern, he thinks very pointedly about checking the notice board for contracts. Posada is merely a convenient stop for him, and it’s still a few days before midsummer so he has plenty of time to leave before Dandelion shows up. This will be fine. And if he happens to catch a glimpse of him that’s… also fine.

He slips into a light meditation in an effort to slow his racing heart, and when he next opens his eyes it’s early evening, and the tavern is already bustling. There’s — Geralt’s breath stutters — there’s a bard performing. 

Not wanting to draw attention to himself, he takes a swig of lukewarm ale and glances up through his lashes. The bard is colorful, and tall, and unexpectedly broad-shouldered under all his frills. He’s playing the lute and singing a modified version of Fishmonger’s Daughter, of all things. It’s a bawdy old rhyme, and Geralt’s never heard it this far from the sea. Judging by the crowd and their less than positive reception, they haven’t either. Still, the fresh-faced bard seems relatively unperturbed, even as he snarks at the patrons and picks bread up off the floor. 

Geralt stiffens when he looks up again. The bard’s spotted him. Fuck. Is this it? Time slows as his awareness expands, witcher senses kicking in as they do whenever his body wants to panic but his mutations have other ideas.

The bard saunters over to stand across from him, pinning him in place with his considering gaze. “No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance except… for you.”

Geralt’s mouth is dry. He stares into his ale as the bard lowers himself into a chair, studying him… and Geralt has no idea what he sees.

“You must have some review for me,” he continues, and Geralt can hear the way his heart flutters in his chest. “Three words or less.”

Geralt’s gaze snaps to the bard. To _Dandelion_. He hardly recognizes his own voice as he says, “They don’t exist.”

Breathless, Dandelion replies, “What don’t exist?”

“The creatures in your song.” And Geralt can’t help it, a small smile crosses his face.

The smile Dandelion gives him in return is _blinding_. 

Before Geralt can find his voice again, Dandelion holds out a hand to shake and says, “Jaskier the bard, at your service.”

Geralt holds out his own hand but instead of shaking it, Dandelion — Jaskier, his name is — lifts it to his lips and presses a kiss to Geralt’s knuckles. Eyes dancing with mirth, he asks, “And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

It’s like he’s been doused with ice water. This was a mistake. Geralt tenses, but Jaskier’s hold tightens along with his gaze. His eyes dart across Geralt’s armor, his wolf amulet, his swords, his hair. A shade of realization comes over him and Geralt can’t do this. He should never have come. He should never have yearned for more.

He jerks out of Jaskier’s hold, grabs his swords, and stalks to the door. He hears scrambling behind him but he pushes forward, through the pain and hurt, burying it all, thinking only of saddling Roach and returning to the Path.

A few steps outside the tavern, he’s stopped by a hand at his shoulder. 

“Wait,” Jaskier gasps, and begrudgingly, Geralt turns to face him. Why does this have to get worse than it already is?

But instead of the revulsion, or fear, or whatever else he expected from Jaskier’s expression, none of that is there. He can’t even smell it in his scent. There is only… Jaskier. And he _knows_ this man, knows him deeper than he’d care to admit, and Geralt pauses, unmoored.

Achingly slowly, Jaskier reaches out to cup Geralt’s cheek, eyes blue and full of wonder. He whispers, “Tell me your story, Geralt of Rivia.”

And he does.


End file.
